09 September 2011


Sadly, my biscuits looked nothing like this.
Last night I tried to make biscuits. Tried being the operative word. Instead of actually succeeding, I discovered reason #8 why every human being should live alone before marriage.

Because to subject another person to those biscuits would have been cruel.

I can cook. I can. I'm not awesome, but I can painlessly follow a recipe.

However, following a recipe only works if the recipe is worth following.

As I am now aware (through my studious *research*), there's this little statement included in most biscuit recipes that says something like this: "Keep the dough cold! And handle it as little as possible!" 

When I copied the biscuit recipe out of my mother's cookbook, it didn't say that. (NOTE TO MOM: Your biscuit recipe is faulty. Just a head's up.)

I wish it had, because I'm a kneader. I knead things. It's an enjoyable pastime to me.

But it turns biscuits into rocks. 

Is anyone taking a sea voyage in the next few months? You could take the remaining biscuits with you. They'd make great hardtack. I had to soak (not just dip, soak) them in milk last night to make them edible, and that was only about twenty minutes after cooking them. Imagine the possibilities they'll have in a few weeks, when they have time to petrify.

I could put them in a time capsule for people to dig up in 2564 and they could be all,
"Now [* ahem *], this appears to be some sort of possibly edible substance made from a mixture of overly-processed wheat flour and baking powder and butter. Due to its solid nature, it has likely changed only slightly in the approximate five-and-a-half hundred years since its creation [* ahem *]. They must have had extremely hardy teeth and jaw systems back in those days, would not you agree, Dr. Waltybucket?"
"I do indeed, Dr. McFudge."
My biscuits could be in a museum. How cool would that be?


Love always,

P.S. --If I buried them, at least I wouldn't have to eat them for lunch...

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